


marriage à la mode

by lyres



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bridal Boutique AU, F/F, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-09-30 13:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17224625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyres/pseuds/lyres
Summary: “Why don't we have a magical doorway that permits entry only to the pure of heart?” Cosette leans, more wistfully than the situation calls for, across the counter. “Imagine how much more relaxed our jobs would be.”“I don't think they would be, given that our alterations tailor wouldn't be able to enter the store anymore,” Éponine says drily, but there's a softness to her tone, so Cosette is still on her good side.“Montparnasse can use the back door. Or you'll lend him your overcoat; cloak him in goodness.”Éponine bites back a smile, and it feels like a victory. “I'm sure he'd love that.”(In which Cosette will make sure no one in her bridal boutique is unhappy if it's the last thing she does, Éponine refuses to express an Emotion, and Bahorel has no intentions of bettering himself.)





	1. Chapter 1

Secretly, Cosette prefers brides who come with their intended from those who bring family or friends. No one but Éponine knows she feels that way, and no one else really needs to know, but she thinks her reasoning is sound. For one, there's the obvious fact that people who don't care about superstitions are likely to be more open-minded and less complicated customers, but far more importantly, whenever a bride brings a whole entourage, one of them will always – _always_ – be like Anaïs.

“It doesn't look bad, you know?” Anaïs is here as best friend of the bride. A _best friend_. The kind that Cosette couldn't even stand as an acquaintance. “That's not what I'm saying. But there's a better dress for you, there has to be. One that doesn't make your back look so – so bullish. Not that it is broad, but like, it doesn't look ideal right now. I mean, it's your wedding, you don't want to look like a linebacker.”

Silence spreads. The words echo in it, ripples on a pond. Twining her fingers together before her lap, the bride-to-be, Nezha, glances at Cosette. Ten seconds ago, she'd loved the dress, but as soon as an apparent defect has been pointed out, a bride is going to see it, whether it's there or not.

Cosette imagines what she'd say, were the customer not always right. Something petty, possibly mean, and, for a lack of time, slightly unimaginative, but it'd hit the mark. _Some say it's best to embrace our flaws – I see you're leading by example._ Cosette smiles widely.

“Well, backless dresses have only just made a comeback, so for a part, we've just become unused to seeing them. But to quote one of my former professors, there isn't a woman in the world who doesn't have a beautiful back.” She steps onto the platform and carefully holds a slim strip of lace across the collarbone, spanning it over the shoulder and to the back of the dress as an additional strap. “There's nothing wrong with showing that off, but of course, there are other options. Adding a strap on both sides would narrow the uncovered space at the back. Ultimately, it's you that has to feel comfortable.”

Perhaps her eyes rest on the best friend for a little too long, and perhaps she stresses the word 'you' a little too emphatically, but then, is there really such a thing? Éponine has called her unprofessional for these methods more than once. Cosette has responded the same way every time: what is their job if not making sure brides are happy, them above anyone else?

The attempt, tragically, is fruitless. Anaïs and her perfectly judgemental eyebrows have succeeded in pulling the fitting into their iron grip, and there's nothing for Cosette to do other than to gracefully move on. “We had two more options picked out for you, didn't we?” Cosette seeks Nezha's eyes. “You never know if the next one won't be even more perfect.”

 

By divine providence, or through luck, or, and Cosette likes to consider this the most valid possibility, as a matter of her excellent skills as a saleswoman, Nezha has settled on a dress an hour later. Mermaid silhouette, lace sleeves, pearl buttons down the back, Anaïs-approved. Cosette can make her peace with that last one. After all, you win some...

“Why don't we have a magical doorway that permits entry only to the pure of heart?” Cosette leans, more wistfully than the situation calls for, across the counter. “Imagine how much more relaxed our jobs would be.”

“I don't think they would be, given that our alterations tailor wouldn't be able to enter the store anymore,” Éponine says drily, but there's a softness to her tone, so Cosette is still on her good side. (Experience says that it's difficult not to be.)

“Montparnasse can use the back door. Or you'll lend him your overcoat; cloak him in goodness.”

Éponine bites back a smile, and it feels like a victory. “I'm sure he'd love that.” She looks away for a moment, smoothing out something that's come over her expression. Cosette always notices, but she never points it out. “You know what I'm going to say.”

“I wasn't being unprofessional, I didn't even say anything!” Cosette throws up her arms. “And I really wanted to! That deserves credit, too, doesn't it?”

Éponine's teeth worry at her bottom lip, as she perhaps tries to keep herself from pointing out the obvious: that not scaring away their customers does not, in fact, deserve credit, and should at all times be taken for granted.

Cosette sighs again, resigned this time. “Either way, we've done our jobs. Nezha's happy, her devilish friend is happy, everyone's happy.”

“You're not happy.”

“Get me that magical doorway, and maybe I will be.” She elbows Éponine gently, and suddenly it's easy to smile again. “Are you taking that next appointment? Then I'll get to unwrapping the last of the new arrivals.”

“Sure.” Éponine avoids her gaze and shoos Cosette into the back, muttering something about there being no magic doors to keep out the 16:00 client, so she had better clear the showroom, and Cosette wonders if they should eventually talk about this.

The trouble with talking about it, Cosette thinks as she unzips garment bag after garment bag, is that she's not entirely sure what _this_ is. They see so much of each other, they're together five days a week at minimum, so when Éponine is unhappy, Cosette notices. What's more difficult than noticing is understanding what she might be unhappy with, because it's Éponine, and she doesn't want to talk about it, and Cosette's judgement is always a little clouded with her, and also, Cosette is silently a little terrified.

In the two years that they've been running the boutique, bumps in the road – mainly financial – were to be expected, but save those, this ridiculous pipe dream conjured up in the windowless sewing rooms of the institute has been going so well that Cosette would be suspicious if she weren't an optimist by nature. They complement each other, they tend to agree instantly on decisions, and they have the trust of their sparse number of employees – except, possibly, for Montparnasse's, but who knows, with him. Their system works, as does their style of leadership: Cosette likes in-depth consultations and taking care of their stock; Éponine likes their rare custom-made pieces, from the process of designing to hand-stitching the final detailing. As a consequence, Cosette tends to spend more time with their stylist and sales assistant, and Éponine with Montparnasse and Irma in the back, and the compartmentalisation makes everything easier on them.

Occasionally, they'll switch roles as required, and Éponine doesn't mind doing consultations, but perhaps she's unhappier with having to do them than she lets on. Cosette finds it hard to believe, because normally, aside from having her preferences, Éponine loves what they do, and it shows. Seeing her at work is mesmerising: the way she's already dressing clients in her mind as they've only just started to describe their wishes, the thought she puts into every last detail, the understanding she has of any client's character and the way she lets it show, subtly, in her designs. Watching her, there's no question to Cosette that she loves her job, but then...

Cosette wipes the thought from her mind and hangs the first of the newly unwrapped orders up, prepared to examine it. She'll bring it up, she tells herself. Better that than to miss out on something crucial.

* * *

After closing time, Montparnasse sits them down and tells them he'll be giving up his position. It's quiet for a full ten seconds before Cosette says, a little more incredulous than is appropriate, “To go where?”

Shoving back her own confusion, Éponine touches Cosette's knee. It's the worst possible moment for something like this to happen, because Cosette has been tense, Éponine can tell she has, and whatever the reason for that may be, a sudden resignation of their best employee – not the most likeable, but certainly the most talented – really can't be of much help.

Beyond that, even though Éponine would and will not admit it out loud, the distance and coolness he speaks with hurt.

“There was a position open at a store in central, as alterations manager.” He keeps his eyes level, professional and closed off. “I applied, and I didn't think it'd really go anywhere, but – it did.” For a moment, Éponine thinks he might have the decency to look bashful, but she blinks, and it's gone. “I'm starting in two months.”

Cosette is still staring. Then, suddenly, she laughs, and says, “No, you're not.”

“You can't keep me here.” He's not trying to sound cruel, Éponine thinks, but he's not really trying to soften the blow either. It's horrible to watch. “I'm giving you eight weeks notice, that's more than enough according to contract.”

“What store?” Éponine isn't sure why it matters.

Montparnasse stays quiet for a moment. “ _Cécile's_.”

Cosette scoffs. “Oh, come _on_.”

“I told both of you that I had ambitions in the first interview, you knew this was going to happen eventually. Now it happened sooner rather than later, but that doesn't change the fact that you knew. It's no reason to get upset.”

“Don't do this.” Shaking her head slowly, Cosette hardens. “Please don't take that tone with me, don't make it sound as if I'm being hysterical. I have a right to be surprised about this; you never said a _word_ about looking for new offers. Were you unhappy here? Or was that all this job was, the necessary evil you needed for a reference, so you could walk off and sell Elie Saab dresses to trophy wives in the making?”

 _Cécile's_ is one of the biggest players in Europe. The more Éponine thinks about it, the more sense it makes. Cosette may use the most derogatory words she can think of, but what she's describing sounds exactly like something Montparnasse could want: customers with a deep pocket, designs that don't need to take size into account because there is an endless string of brides with the same body type, less authenticity, more show. It's a depersonalised business with certain profit and endless creative freedom. Éponine loathes it profoundly.

Montparnasse has abandoned the passive mask that was devoid of emotion, which is somehow worse, as his eyes take the same shine as Cosette's. “Did you think this was what I wanted?” He looks at Éponine, and she presses Cosette's knee below the table. “Being offered a position out of pity and having to stick with it because it's not like I could expect anyone else to hire me? At least this time I was chosen because I'm _good_ , not because some second-chance initiative by my employer's daddy with a messiah complex compelled them to.”

“That's enough.” Éponine stays in her seat, barely resisting the urge to make herself taller than Montparnasse. “We're not going to try and persuade you to stay if you're unhappy, which you clearly are. I'm sorry neither of us realised how much, but we were always available for you to talk. Obviously, none of this will influence your reference, and we expect you to keep up your standard for the rest of your time here.”

His eyes rest on hers for a moment that stretches, and stretches, for far too long. The silence is terribly shrill. “Thank you,” he says finally. “I'll bring the paperwork in tomorrow.”

Éponine nods, and five minutes later, with the light dull and the showroom eerily soundless, she's alone with Cosette again. After more silence, Cosette says, “I'm sorry, I can't – is it okay if we talk about this in the morning?”

“I know I'm not thinking clearly right now, so.” Éponine smiles weakly. “One more problem for our future selves.”

“They'll manage,” Cosette says confidently, because that's how she is. Because that is also how she is, she adds, “ _God_ , I'm angry.”

“Sleep it off.” Éponine presses her arm, and then she chides herself in silence. “We'll be fine, you know?”

When she looks up, this time, Cosette smiles. “I know.”

 

Friday morning finds Éponine carrying two to-go cups, fumbling with the shop key for almost five minutes before she realises Cosette is already in. Walking on tip-toes into the sewing room, she spots Cosette at the largest alterations desk, papers strewn about and – of course – two coffee cups waiting by her side.

“Great minds, et cetera,” greets Éponine softly and puts her own coffees down precariously near the papers. Cosette, once she understands what happened, laughs and hides her face in her hands.

“Well, Montparnasse and Irma's lucky day,” she says finally and pushes one of the cups she brought over to Éponine anyway. “You take this one; I know for a fact that you'd never spring for that extra pump of caramel when you order coffee for yourself.”

The twinge in her chest, Éponine tells herself, only comes because she feels somewhat caught in the act. “What's all this?”

“Oh!” Cosette perks up, like she'd entirely forgotten about the buckets of paperwork strewn around her for the moment. “Oh, I have so much to say. Not even just to you, it's – I can't believe the way I spoke to him yesterday, I don't know what came over me. Or rather, I do; I understand some things now.” She takes a deep breath, and Éponine knows what's coming. Cosette has never left the problems and stress of work at the boutique; she takes them home with her, always. “The first thing I understood was that it's better for everyone, well, almost everyone, if we have some turnover when it comes to staff. What's the point of working with the initiative if you can only hire _two_ candidates every what, ten years?” She draws a pencil from where she'd twisted it into her bun and points out an array of printed CVs. “Truthfully, the more people we can employ, the better. It's a wonderful opportunity to find someone new. I spent all night looking through listings.”

Éponine briefly scans a few of the papers. She often thought that Montparnasse had something of a chip on his shoulder about being part of the initiative, but she was also always certain that he liked his field too much not to at least take the chance and, if necessary, live with the consequences. And Valjean's non-profit has only grown since they first started out – by now, there must be countless others like Montparnasse.

“Oh.” She taps a CV right in front of her. “This one looks promising.”

“So many of them do! So we should be pleased with this, really.” Cosette nods as if confirming that resolution, just for herself. She then grimaces, and leans back in her chair, enthusiasm fading. “The second thing I understood was that – well. I'm going to have to apologise to Montparnasse, aren't I.”

“That's up to you.”

She blinks. “You think so?”

“Well, he's leaving anyway.”

Cosette groans. “I know exactly what went wrong, is the worst part. I didn't feel insulted on behalf of the business, and I could never begrudge him an opportunity. Tell me you believe that?”

“Of course. You know it's not me you have to convince.”

“But it is,” she insists. “I know why I overreacted; it had so little to do with Montparnasse. I _was_ personally offended, but it was because – I hate that he obviously didn't feel comfortable addressing that he was unhappy, or looking for a new challenge. I hate the idea that I might have seemed that unsupportive or inflexible. Which is silly, because it wasn't about me at all. And I will talk to him, it's just...” She makes a strange, abortive gesture; a hand moving towards Éponine's wrist on the table, then settling on her coffee cup. “We'd talk, wouldn't we, if you were unhappy? With anything at all. You'd tell me?”

“Cosette.” _Of course_ , she wants to repeat, and almost does, but then, there's nothing self-evident about it. Éponine is not unhappy. Éponine has something to get over, and she will. To talk about it would start fires that would need putting out, and Éponine currently has neither the patience, nor, to be honest, the strength, for damage control.

And at the same time, doesn't Cosette have a right to know? Cosette, who cares more than anyone Éponine has ever met about everyone's feelings, but particularly hers; Cosette, who kisses all her friends on the cheek, forehead, palm, whenever that feels comfortable. Cosette, who was up all night trying to make up for what she considered an unkindness, however brief or small it might have been.

Éponine knows she's waited a bit too long to finish her response. _Sometimes the things you say make me feel dizzy_ , she wants to reply. _Sometimes I feel like I'm going to come apart the next time you smile at me_. “Promise,” she says, almost sincerely, and then, “Let's talk applicants.”

The flurry of papers strewn about them present candidate upon candidate; Cosette approaches Montparnasse and Irma for help with the selection.

Four weeks later, Bahorel starts apprenticing as their alterations tailor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was started almost two years ago, just as I was wrapping up my last fic, and the progression of events leading me back to posting it now runs something like this: a friend tells me to title it after [the Hogarth series](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marriage_A-la-Mode_\(Hogarth\)); I comply but forget about this fic for a good year and a half; I come across said Hogarth series at the National Gallery and remember the fic; recent Statements inspire the urgent need to write about Éponine and Cosette being happy and in love.  
> Chapters will all be as short as this, I'm afraid, because I do hope to update every week - wish me luck, and thank you so much for reading! I'm [lesamis](https://lesamis.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if anyone wants to talk Bahorel & his likely career in bridal fashion.


	2. Chapter 2

When Éponine was younger, a teacher praised her focus once, her gift for being able to block out the entire world when immersed in a task and become practically impossible for anyone outside it to reach. She knew back then that it wasn't a gift as much as it was a perpetual sense of urgency paired with a deep-seated need for escapism, but since, she also thought that this had improved. It's in moments like this that she realises how little, truly, has changed.

She blinks at Bahorel, who has been asking her a question she definitely heard but does not recall, and carefully lowers her embroidery hoop. “Sorry, was there a problem with the fabric?”

“Yeah, it's puckering like crazy, is it supposed to be doing that?”

Panicked, she shoves the bunches of tulle before her to the side, already scrambling to get a look at his work. “What needle are you using?”

“You know,” Bahorel grimaces and picks up the perfectly finished mock-up bodice he's been working on, “every time you take an obvious joke about me fucking up seriously, my heart breaks just the tiniest bit more.”

Éponine exhales, slowly. The extent to which she doesn't know her way around Bahorel yet is ridiculous. Montparnasse wasn't exactly friendly, but at least he never made jokes. Taciturn, Éponine can handle, but sociable? “This is excellent,” she says, running a thumb across the seams. “I could have started you on a less forgiving satin to begin with.”

“Please, no, I'd hate to have to try very hard.”

More jokes, and Éponine settles for a Look and a careful gesture back towards her embroidery.

“Lunch?” Bahorel says instead of taking the hint. “That was what I was asking, before you were back amongst us, the living. Cosette said to take my break, and to remind you of yours.”

Éponine's sigh, she thinks, does a perfect job of covering up her smile. “All right, then.” She folds Bahorel's exercise in satin away – he can start on the real thing, soon. They've chosen well. “Lunch.”

In a thoroughly gentrified yet just on the edge of affordable burger place a block away, Éponine swirls tap water and contemplates boundaries as Bahorel, having taken a news report as occasion, cheerfully recounts past misdemeanours.

“Just to be sure,” she says, restraining herself with every fibre of her being from openly endorsing the latest feat he told her about (charge of vandalism, “but for a good cause”), “you know that absolutely nothing in your contract obligates you to disclose this.”

“ _Disclose_.” He makes a face again, just like earlier. “There goes my attempt at bonding by revelling in memories together.”

“How would we, if they're just your memories?”

“Exactly,” he says, and clicks his tongue. “Give, and you shall receive, as a friend of mine always says; but you're not really taking the bait. Is it pointless? Say so, and I'll drop it.”

As it suddenly falls away, Éponine pins down the source of her scrutiny regarding Bahorel – her incomprehension hasn't completely faded, her inability to make sense of how someone could possibly be so unguarded and still so comfortable. They never did learn what Montparnasse was in for before he started with them, and they never asked. In return, he never showed much of an interest in anyone he worked with, either. For Bahorel, evidently the lack of clear boundaries need not be reciprocal. That is a relief.

Éponine sits up slightly straighter. “What do you want to know?”

“Why bridal fashion?”

She bristles. “Why not?”

“Fair enough,” he says, and appears prepared to settle for as much. “Stereotypically, I suppose, Cosette seems to fit the bill more naturally than you do.”

“You don't have to be a romantic to work with brides.” She stops, then, and reminds herself that there's no harm in being honest. “I knew I wanted to work closely with people. I don't think there's much joy in creating for an abstract ideal; I think most labels are entirely detached from reality. Bridal wear is the only branch that allows you to put an immense amount of care and thought into clothes for clients who are... perfectly normal, and real. Working women, mothers. They're people who usually don't have the privilege of being so selective and particular about garments, even though we should all be. I couldn't see myself doing anything else. Cosette agreed; hence, bridal fashion.”

For a moment, she is tempted to return the question. Bahorel clearly loves fashion – he dresses with a ridiculous amount of understanding without neglecting bravado, and it takes a lot of commitment not to complain about the early routine tasks of an apprenticeship. But bridal wear? The obvious answer is that they are, to this day, the only fashion-related business taking part in the initiative, and so, Éponine does not ask.

Bahorel, satisfied with one answer, moves on to seeking out the next. “Where'd you and Cosette go to school?”

“Olivier-de-Serres.”

“Huh.”

“What did you think?”

“I don't know, IFM? Some of your stuff's pretty out there, kind of makes you expect an edgier type of education.”

Professors advised Éponine to commit to high fashion for as long as she was in education. _You shine in the avant-garde_ , said a tutor in her final feedback consultation. _Don't let that potential get lost in off-white A-lines_. Even then, she didn't entirely understand how the same school could make her feel so at home and so misplaced at once.

But then, there's no telling if it was ever the school that made her feel at home in the first place.

“Bridal wear can be out there,” she says, slightly more defensive than Bahorel deserves. “As for IFM, there's nothing less interesting or groundbreaking than an institution that caters to the less than one per cent. They can't make a claim to edginess while establishing themselves as an authority on fashion serving only the elite; there is no edge for them to walk.”

“You don't think there's a benefit to understanding how these places work? Experience them first-hand, to know your enemy?”

“Not when you're paying them twenty-thousand a year for it, no,” says Éponine, unimpressed. Then, with a critical frown, she adds, “Do _you_ think that?”

“Fuck no. Elite institutions are never going to be subversive.” He grins. “In another life, you could have been running from cops with me and my friends, Mademoiselle Thénardier.”

She doesn't mean to smile at that – it's not funny, really, how close to the truth he's come. He doesn't need to know. “There's more to a school than reputation. I wanted to be challenged in terms of difficulty, not of workload. ENSAAMA isn't a bad place if you want to learn while remaining critical of the industry. Do you have plans to get a degree, in the future?”

“I'd quite literally rather get stabbed several times,” Bahorel says with utter confidence. “The only one who wants me in higher education even less than higher education itself is me. Not cut out for it at all, I'm afraid.”

“Well, it's certainly not necessary to acquire technical skills.” They asked him this briefly in the interview, but things were more formal then, and the full story hasn't made sense to Éponine yet. “How did you learn to sew?”

“From my mother, if you count the patches she'd help me sew to denim jackets to get me hooked as a teenager.” He pauses to have a sip of his iced tea, but evidently with the intention to continue, so that Éponine almost chokes on her food when Bahorel, putting his glass down, adds, “And at IFM.”

Perhaps she should have anticipated – if not this, at least some sort of qualification he kept off his application. Bahorel applied without a portfolio or reference, but has not learned a new stitch since day one, already being familiar with all of them; he lines and stitches silks like it's the easiest thing in the world, not a notoriously terrible exercise in patience and endurance. On his second day, he solved Cosette's off-the-shoulder-sleeve conundrum in an instance with just a throwaway line about sheer netting.

He knows construction and fabric properties as well as any of them. Éponine wonders if she was too lazy or too haughty to bother to put the pieces together.

“Why didn't you tell us?”

“Who tells prospective employers about having dropped out?” He shrugs. “Back when Valjean approached me about applications, I wasn't sure what sort of businesses they'd be going to. I kind of didn't want to look too bad _or_ too good, like, I'm prouder of dropping out than I ever was of being accepted. That school's prestige isn't really something I want to work in my favour.”

“That's what surprised me.” Éponine thinks of the application process she had to go through even for Olivier – a marathon of unbearable scrutiny and pressure, months of work that almost weren't worth the potential acceptance. “What made you apply there in the first place?”

“Hubris?” He smiles, and for the first time, Éponine thinks she can trace some bitterness in his expression. “I ended up not even going for a full year. I didn't have qualms about wasting an opportunity because my folks could afford the tuition, and mind you, back then I really did think I could somehow make the system work for me, which, eh. Sometimes all you really need is a good friend to tell you to get your shit together, and to put you back on the right track of black bloc anarchism.”

“So what brings you here?” Another question that Éponine wasn't going to ask – would not ask, probably, were this anyone else. “Wouldn't this job constitute you coming back to the misguided ways of your youth? Going straight, so to speak?”

“Well, work is work.” The bitterness has faded from his smile, and Éponine wonders why that's somehow not at all reassuring. “And going straight was never in the cards.”

Back in the shop, they have barely reached the sewing room when Irma, distraught, appears out of nowhere to grab Éponine's arm. “'Ponine, thank God,” she says, dragging Éponine by the wrist to her dress form. “I need you.”

* * *

Between her having brought no one but her little daughter in order to choose her wedding dress _and_ not having been undecided on anything even for a second, Cosette thinks she might have found her perfect client in Mariam, who is currently being helped back into her favourite out of the three options to review her choice. This leaves Cosette in charge of five-year old Claire, herself a rather perfect customer when it comes to the selection of candy.

“So which one was your favourite, out of everything your maman tried on?”, asks Cosette, once Claire has finished picking out lollipops to share with Cosette.

Claire holds up two fingers.

“The second one?” Mariam's second dress was a unique piece in their repertoire; unique because the silhouette is slightly out of style (though it lives in Cosette's heart – let fashionistas pry empire waists out of her cold, dead hands), and because most clients looking for something as classical as this particular shape are unlikely to go for the slightly eclectic mix of fabrics. It is a rare and refreshingly wayward dress. Claire has excellent taste.

“She looked like a fairy,” Claire explains her choice. “We want flowers in her hair, for the wedding.”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful. And do you know what you're wearing, too?”

“Maman's making my dress.”

That makes it official – Mariam, nurse and bride-to-be, is a gift to bridal salespeople nation-wide. To know about dressmaking and to not be even the slightest bit obnoxious when dress-shopping is a difficult feat, even, if she's being honest, for Cosette herself.

“I'm sure your maman is going to make you look just as pretty as she is,” says Cosette, and then, as Julie (part-time employee and stylist extraordinaire) draws the curtain of the changing room, helps Claire off the sofa to let her inspect her mother up close. “And look at her! Queen of the fairies.”

“Oh, we're in another realm again, hm, love?” Mariam picks up her daughter easily, and Cosette pats herself on the back for having the foresight to ask Claire to take her shoes off earlier. “I adore this; I'm not entirely sure I'm happy with the skirt.”

“I suggested another layer,” says Julie. “Since she won't have a veil, perhaps just a single layer of very fine tulle over the detailing? The skirt is narrow enough.”

“What do you think?” Cosette asks Mariam. “The finer, the better, I'd say; but it would add some airiness to the silhouette. It all depends on how whimsical you'd like to keep it.”

“Well, as whimsical as possible,” says Mariam with a smile and a glance at Claire, and Cosette loves her job so very much.

“You know – if that's all right with you, you can just admire yourself here for a while as I go find my partner, and she'll talk you through some options. This kind of customisation is no problem at all.”

She leaves the three of them alone with the dress and Claire's assortment of lollipops to head to the sewing room. Cosette is only half-convinced of the layering idea, and Éponine has a way of pinning these problems down easily. Whenever they work on consultations together, Cosette is tempted afterwards to comment on just how far Éponine has come from being the quiet one to root for at university, the girl whose opinion, invaluable as it was, always needed to be drawn out from her through painstaking questioning. It seems condescending to point it out, though, so Cosette never does. Éponine, surely, is aware of the progress they've both made.

If she did have the mind to take her lunch break with Bahorel – which she had better; Cosette sometimes feels, in her view with good reason, that making sure everyone in this often far too hectic place forgets to have a decent meal during the day is like herding cats – she should be back by now. To demand Bahorel ask her to come was a lazy attempt at having them warm up to each other, even though Cosette knows these things are beyond her control. Still, she wouldn't have put in the effort if she wasn't convinced they could hit it off, and it feels, lately, like Éponine could use a friend.

Not that Éponine doesn't have friends. Not that it's really any of Cosette's business, either. Cosette doesn't want her to feel uncomfortable here, is the point, not even for a second. And having a friend around is always better than having a new apprentice to look after.

“Éponine? There's –” Cosette turns the corner, and stops in her tracks. At the back of the room and on the stepping stool that allows them to reach the upper shelves for fabric storage stands Éponine, with Irma bustling around her as she tugs and pulls at the hem of the dress that has been, supposedly for purposes of accessibility, put on Éponine.

Cosette recognises it as their latest custom order, having attached the appliqués on the bodice herself; it is a sheath silhouette made from a light chiffon with some unusual and playful elements on the bodice. Cosette remembers being proud of it, too: it was the kind of piece that demanded a perfect finish for how minimalist the cut itself was, and finish it perfectly they did. It was a piece to be proud of, before, but now, for an odd second, Cosette does not know where to look. She's not entirely sure what she came here for, either, and when she opens her mouth to see if those words from just a moment ago are still on the tip of her tongue, she says, “Oh.”

Éponine, who was inspecting the fabrics she is by coincidence level with, turns. A strand of chestnut hair has slipped from her ponytail; it falls against the strap on her shoulder, brushing her collarbone. A confused onslaught of guilt and a rush of blood to her cheeks indicate vaguely to Cosette that she isn't meant to be looking so closely. “What's up?”

 _Something_ is. Something was, just now. “There's a – um, the lady needs some tulle,” Cosette says intelligently.

“Oh, do you need me to get out of the way?” Éponine makes to step off the stool, and is stopped by Irma, who unceremoniously wraps arms around her calves.

“Sorry, Cosette, I need to get this hem level,” says Irma and holds Éponine firmly in place.

“What's wrong with your dress form?”, asks Cosette, helpless.

Irma tugs on the fabric for emphasis. “The dress form isn't a living, breathing human.”

Cosette knows this. Of course she does, she is a seamstress. A designer. She knows things. “Could you continue later? We need Éponine, not just the fabric.”

“Of course we can.” Éponine ignores Irma's grumbling as she descends from the stool, and does she always hold herself like this? It's as if her posture has adjusted to the gown, straight-backed and regal. At school, Éponine was notorious for refusing to model anyone's creations, to the point where no one could claim to ever have seen her in an original piece. “You go ahead, I'll be right out with some options. English tulle?”

“Yes, please.” Cosette, having had a moment to recover, returns to herself. “And Irma, I think the problem might be the waistband, maybe readjusting that will do it.”

She turns on her heel, headed back towards the show room before her mind can latch on to anything else to find inappropriately confusing. On her way out of the room, she passes Bahorel, who is putting some darts into a finished bodice and, as Cosette now realises, has had a perfect view of the entire train wreck as it unfolded. He does not miss his opportunity to catch her gaze, eyebrows raised.

 _Me too_ , thinks Cosette, and stands for a moment once she has turned the corner, taking a deep breath, determined to wipe the confusion of whatever the fuck that was out of her immediate memory. Finally, she exhales, shoulders squared, and returns to Mariam with her best sales-face on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to the [IFM](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Institut_Fran%C3%A7ais_de_la_Mode) for being briefly cast as the villain in this chapter; I don't actually know if they deserve it. They also only offer postgraduate courses, which for this particular Bahorel would be out of the question to attend - let's collectively pretend they have like one foundation course? Éponine's and Cosette's hypothetical degree is [this one](http://ensaama.net/site/home/formations/bts/design-textile), because I like to over-research stuff, and they have a lovely induction video. (Also, while we're here, I pictured the dress Ép wears looking something like [this](https://www.theknot.com/fashion/db-studio-style-ds870038-davids-bridal-wedding-dress)). 
> 
> I'm quite sure that the image of Cosette ceasing to function when she sees Éponine in one of the dresses wasn't an original idea, but a tag that the lovely [hero-ofcanton](http://hero-ofcanton.tumblr.com/) left on the post I made about this AU approximately a century ago. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! I will get back to comments the moment this chapter posts, and I can't tell you how wonderful it was to see familiar faces in my inbox again. <3


	3. Chapter 3

“So, let's talk projections.”

“You're hilarious.”

It couldn't be more obviously sarcastic, but Éponine is smiling. It helps these meetings, Cosette feels, when they're both in a good mood: talking numbers is always bad, but especially so after a day of disapproving family members in consultations, even though Éponine is a master at not letting her frustration show.

Weekly reviews are conducted on the couch in the tiny rec room – more of a small kitchen, really, and not a good one; they'd looked for months before finding this space and they weren't going to turn it down based on something as petty as a leaky faucet. Reviews also include macarons, because the leftovers from the sweets they keep for consultations have to go somewhere. Cosette tucks her legs in underneath herself, a folder that weighs just as much as their standard dress form open on the couch between them.

“All quiet on the budget front, lucky for us,” she says, running her finger down the revenues column of the spreadsheet. “The lace lady, uh, bateau neckline? She only sent part of last month's rate.”

“Solène.” Éponine frowns. “Can we give it until the end of this month? Then I'll get in touch.”

“Of course. We could stand to stagger payments more, currently; you can just tell her not to worry.”

 _For now_. Cosette sees no need to point it out again by now; they're both all too aware of how hard online retailers continue to make their existence as a small (minuscule, genuinely tiny, with their forty-five square metres of studio space) independent store. The bridal business is among the less affected ones out there, but as ever, what impact there is will be felt by the smallest.

“We did get an email today that could help out as well,” Éponine says, sounding hesitant. “I almost just dismissed it, but – you know how it'd be a really stupid idea to take on two custom orders simultaneously?”

“You mean the thing we never do, because it's a really stupid idea?” They don't have the hands to work on more than one custom order at once, plain and simple, and they don't have the money to hire more hands. One custom dress at a time is the firmest rule the boutique abides by.

“Yeah.” Éponine, unaware of it, wrings her hands in her lap. “This inquiry came in; it'd be a set, dress and suit. They're just asking for now, it's completely non-committal, but they did name a budget.” Éponine's face twists with something almost wistful, like the words as she says them are sweeter than she wants them to be. “It's... really good.”

“Ép, we can't,” Cosette says softly, even though wants nothing less than to be the person to wipe that expression from Éponine's face. She adds the weaker argument, if only to soften the blow. “Even if we did have magical little tailoring elves to finish up open seams overnight, neither of us are qualified enough in menswear.”

“A suit isn't menswear; they're two brides.”

“God.” Cosette slumps against the soft cushions as any rational objection leaves her at once. “ _Fuck_. What a dream of an order.” Especially for Éponine, who nowadays so rarely gets to work on the avant-garde cuts and slim fits that made her stand out so much at school. They both loved androgyny in their designs when they were still students, but in two years of business, not a single client has been interested in exploring that route.

“I thought – if we extended the normal timespan by fifty per cent, maybe? That might already be enough of a cushion. Maybe we could even leave a consultation to Julie now and then; free you up for other work. You know she's itching for it.” Éponine hurries to add, “But again, it's just an inquiry, and if you think it'll put too much stress on everyone –”

“Éponine.” _Éponine, Éponine_. Cosette hasn't seen her this excited about anything in months. They'll overwork themselves with an order like this; they absolutely will end up having to hire someone to either replace one of them in alterations or to work on the order, and that will cancel right out any advantage the clients' budget gives them. Business-wise, it's a neutral to terrible decision. “Of course we're doing it.”

If she focuses enough on the macaron in her hand and the shine in Éponine's eyes – something she hasn't seen in too long, and god, what would she do if Éponine decided she wasn't fulfilled in this anymore, what would Cosette ever do if Éponine wanted to leave – she almost doesn't hear her inner voice calling her the most colossal idiot that ever bent over backwards to keep a friend around. _You can't hold back people forever_.

They wrap things up soon after, just about when Cosette notes that she's already half running late for a meeting of a different sort. “I'm headed to drinks with Bahorel, if you want to come?”

“With Bahorel?” Éponine, who was unceremoniously stuffing the carton of macarons in her bag, stops in her tracks. “So – you just sent him off to wait at the bar? When he _works here_?”

“This is our time.” Plus, Bahorel said pretty explicitly that he didn't mind. Not that it would have made a difference if he'd been incensed: inviting anyone else to these meetings had not even occurred to Cosette. There was no firm agreement to this routine, but changing it would be a betrayal of something unspoken.

“Maybe we should make everything a little more democratic,” says Éponine thoughtfully, pulling her hair out from under her scarf and shaking it to fall across her shoulders. “If only to prevent anyone disappearing with a two-months-notice again.”

“Maybe,” says Cosette, and smiles brightly. “But for tonight, all our employees are on board, all our suit requests are accepted, and you're in urgent need of a well-made hot chocolate and maybe some kahlúa. So, the offer stands.”

Éponine's smile in response is genuine, but she's tired, and it sends a twinge through Cosette's chest. “We're making family dinner for two. Azelma's gone so many nights a week; we hardly get to sit down together.”

“Oh! Give her my love. How is she liking school?”

“Honestly? I wish I knew.” Outside, Éponine rubs her hands together for warmth, and her smile becomes slightly more sardonic. “Figures that the only person less prepared to open up about stuff than I am would be my sister.”

“Wring some answers out of her; I'll be expecting a report on Monday,” says Cosette, and briefly leans in to kiss Éponine's cheek before she waves goodbye.

She had good intentions for this, Cosette thinks as she walks down the two blocks to the bar. She hasn't really had time to sit down with Bahorel outside of work, and she likes him too much not to at least try to make him an outside-of-work-friend. She wanted to learn things about him and have some friendly conversation about the dubious return of the leather pant to mainstream fashion, or whatever he might be passionate about. Just how readily she'll now throw these ideas out depends entirely on Bahorel's reaction, so Cosette knows she's beyond saving when she greets Bahorel with the words “Ready to get completely sloshed?”, only to receive an “And I thought you'd never ask” in return.

“It's like, whoever even was it to tell the rest of us to stay away from crushed velvet?” Bahorel is three drinks in, and upset about the absence of power sleeves on today's runways. “People are so afraid to live. Like, fuck you, I'll bring the entire fucking club Blitz to your living room. I'm gonna start a movement; gonna be the Neo-New Romantic. At least people knew the worth of _colour_ back then.”

“You're not starting a movement in _our_ shop,” says Cosette, her authority slightly undercut by the slur of the words. Rather than cocktails, she went for shots. Not her best decision today, but, ironically, not the worst either. “Or do. Bring in more interesting clients. Wait, that's mean, I love our clients.”

Bahorel snorts. “Yeah, they aren't the problem.”

“There is no _problem._ ” There really isn't. So long as they have this order, and Éponine has something to creatively challenge her, and no one leaves because a suburban bridal boutique with a staff of five can't be a match to their artistic endeavours anymore, there is no problem at all. “I'll have you know that we're on the up.”

“I'm sure that's true for the plural,” says Bahorel. “No worries though, we've all been there. I recommend a steady stream of frequently changing partners, that is, if you're into that. Although I will have you know that the only viable alternative is cold turkey, which doesn't seem like much of an option in this case.”

Cosette blinks and abandons the wedge of lime she'd been carefully dissecting with a cocktail pick. “What does that have to do with anything?” Although he's not wrong – she hasn't dated in a while; it has seemed unnecessary to her, tangled up in business things as they all are. She hasn't felt the need to, either. Working in a bridal store will easily give you your fill of romantic excitement. “Anyway, I'm not really interested in anyone currently.”

“Fuck,” says Bahorel, and then, “Oh man. That's priceless.”

Cosette concludes that, between the tequila and the reminiscing, she probably missed something. “Are you seeing someone?”

“When I want to be,” Bahorel replies brightly. “Anyway, you were telling me about that project you won a prize for.”

“I was?” She must have been. “So basically, this assignment asked us to work with just potato skins.” 

* * *

Knocking on Azelma's door is a fragile undertaking. No one manages to make Éponine forget more quickly that they're both legally adults than Azelma shut up in her room, headphones on judging by the lack of reaction someone entering the apartment, and utterly prepared to ignore the outside world until indefinitely. No one other than their brother, that is.

Fuck, she misses him.

“Hey.” She raps her knuckles against the wood. “Dinner? I have macarons.”

The rustling of pillows, and the door opens to reveal Azelma in her pyjamas, obviously sleepy, hair in disarray and eyes heavy-lidded. She says, with the calm voice that utterly lacks any judgement and is unique to her, “Those are not a meal.”

Éponine holds up the bag of groceries, swinging it back and forth as if to coax Azelma to the kitchen. “I figured we'd earn them.”

“Fair.”

Azelma is a listener. She is also a cook – the only good one in the apartment, and the only reason either of them ever has any nutritional meals – and listens to shop anecdotes as she sautés vegetables, always asking more questions, so that Éponine has run out of stories by the time they sit down to eat. _Well, keep trying_ , thinks Éponine, and says, as nonchalantly as she can, “How was school?”

“So-so,” says Azelma, even shrugging, which somehow makes it worse. “Old Bonaparte called in sick, which was nice.”

“Old Bonaparte of terrible-world-literatures-lecture fame?” It's embarrassing, really, how instantly she latches on to that familiar bit of information.

“That's the one.” Azelma smiles. “It's for the best, really. Him staying away must do wonders for his and my blood pressure.”

Her sister in a rage is hard to imagine, with how small she makes herself, with how quietly she speaks. Éponine can't remember the last time she heard her raise her voice – and they've been living together all their lives, God, they're only three years apart.

Maybe that's the problem. Neither of them has ever felt their age.

“Anything happen at work?” tries Éponine again. It's already a sore topic, because Azelma knows her sister doesn't want her to be working, and Éponine knows Azelma doesn't want her to keep bringing it up, but clutching at straws seems like all they have.

It's still the wrong thing to do.

“I didn't quit, if that's what you're wondering.”

“Zelma.”

“Don't –” Azelma stops, and lowers her fork.

The moment of silence stretches, and Éponine feels herself run hot with panic, the familiar sensation that is purely reserved for moments like this, for the still all-too frequent moments in which she feels she might have failed Azelma or Gavroche.

Azelma stands up, plate in hand, and Éponine, out of reflex, stands with her. “Please,” she says. “God. I'm sorry, don't leave; for _once_ , could we actually talk?”

“We could,” says Azelma, still so quiet, when it would be infinitely easier to be yelled at. “How about you start? We could start with, I don't know, whatever it is that's been happening at the shop to make you so miserable. Why don't we just go from there?”

For a moment, the questions find Éponine too stunned to speak. _No_ , supplies her mind. _No, she's not meant to say this. She's not meant to know, not her, not your little sister_. “I'm not miserable –”

“You are, you're miserable! When I ask, you talk about anyone but yourself, like I care about what sort of neckline some blonde woman from Nanterre wanted – you never talk about what you're doing, you never mention projects you're proud of, I haven't seen Cosette here in _months_. Can you imagine what it's like to notice all that, and be expected not to care at all and to happily carry on using you as some sort of emotional dust bin? Just how selfish do you think we are?”

Dropped from the flurry of commands, Éponine's mind has gone blank. “I'm –”

“No.” There is a soft, distant clattering noise – distant? Azelma is in front of her, but her voice, also, seems far away. “I won't accept an apology. I refuse.”

Éponine, suddenly, understands. It used to drive her half to madness, the way Azelma would stand up and leave any room in which an argument began, the way she withdrew immediately from any situation of conflict, leaving everything unresolved before she took part in it.

Listening to the rush of blood in her ears, Éponine thinks she apologises, again, before she moves mechanically to her bedroom and shuts the door behind her.

It's been so long – most days, she feels the anxiety only as a lurch in her heartbeat, a slight nervous sweat in her hands she washes off so her needle won't slip. _Be alone, be alone_ , says her instinct, _go_ _where they won't see you_ , _they mustn't know_ , and once she's alone, there are other steps to follow, but she has forgotten them.

Time passes quickly. Say what you fucking will about anxiety attacks, she thinks when her own words return, at least they aren't slow. She finds herself at the foot of her bed, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, and understands that what has brought her back was Azelma's quiet knock on the door.

“I have your curry,” she says. After some silence, in which Éponine realises that her throat is too parched to allow for a response, her voice comes again, soft and calm. “Do you want to watch something?”

Huddled in the ancient leather armchairs the previous tenant had thrown in for free (them being “not worth disposing of”, which Éponine thinks is hilariously indicative of the average person's inability to appreciate a good armchair), they watch _The NeverEnding Story_ and eat macarons. The sound from the laptop speaker is tinny and them not having a living room has never made for good movie nights, but feeling returns to Éponine's fingertips, and she senses herself, the longer they watch, edging closer and closer to falling asleep in her chair.

This is another thing she almost forgot: the sense of relief once the anxiety fades, the tender feeling that swallows her whole. Inconveniently enough, she finds that she cannot look at the Childlike Empress without starting to cry.

Azelma is gracious enough to pretend not to notice. She keeps her eyes on the screen, picks macarons apart before eating them, and sits curled up with her feet tucked in, like a cat would.

How fucking unlikely for them to be here. How absolutely fucking impossible, Éponine thinks, that she is looking at her sister with a blanket around her shoulders eating macarons Éponine brought home from the bridal boutique she is co-running. Their apartment isn't great; a small business is a small business, and Éponine won't allow Azelma to contribute to rent while she's still a student. But god, if it's not the best place they've ever called home. After living off minimal stipends from the government first and scholarship money later, what a ridiculous and stunning and otherworldly thing for them to have.

She wants to give her sister a hug. She wants to text Gavroche, just to say hello. It's been half a year since he went off to university – in the South, as he'd confidently chosen in his fiercely independent spirit, only to then come back to visit them every other week. Maybe she _should_ text him; this really is his favourite movie before it's either of theirs...

Azelma pokes her arm with a little finger. On screen, the dramatic finale is playing out; the Nothing swallows up a magical realm. The very last macaron makes a soft crunching sound as Azelma breaks it in half.

“I don't think I like school,” says Azelma, a few moments after she's handed one half to Éponine.

Éponine nods. Her eyelids feel heavy, and she does not have a good response. _You don't have to go. We'll find something you'll love. You have all the time in the world_. Azelma, if Éponine has done anything right, which maybe – just maybe – she really has, already knows these things. “I have been in love with Cosette for a year,” she says.

The hero on screen finds his tragic end (for now), and Azelma coughs. Éponine takes what feels like the first deep breath in months, and runs the back of her hand across her eyes. How in the world, she wonders, could she ever have thought saying this out loud would be anything other than an immense relief?

“Well, fuck,” says Azelma, and reaches up to the cupboard to retrieve a long-saved bottle of Cointreau. “You first.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't drink to cope with crushes, kids. 
> 
> I'm so sorry for the delay - my motivation of spite isn't wearing off, I promise, the date just happened to coincide with an essay deadline this time. Thanks for reading, and sticking around!! <3


	4. Chapter 4

Considering just how outraged Azelma was after having painstakingly drawn out of Éponine her plan to throw herself into work in order to limit the time she'd inevitably have to spend around Cosette, Éponine, after trying it out for a few weeks, really is quite optimistic. If there was ever a project that required nothing less than her full attention, it is their latest commission, so the slight bouts of mania that now shape her work habits aren't even particularly suspicious.

“So, your work habits have been suspiciously maniacal,” says Bahorel as he drops Éponine's requested fabric on the desk between them. It takes Éponine a moment to work through those words.

“All of us are busier than usual,” she points out. “There's a lot to keep track of; I'm just trying to stay on top of things.”

“Hm.” Bahorel nods in evidently feigned understanding. “Antsy about the fitting later?”

“I'm looking forward to it,” says Éponine, and she _is_. It's been so long since anyone but herself tried on pants she tailored, and she really has been pouring her everything into this project – as she would have, she likes to think, even without the additional benefit of it being the perfect distraction. She picks the as yet unfinished pair of pants up from the desk and holds it up, eyeing it carefully herself before turning to Bahorel. “Tell me what you think.”

“Wow.” Bahorel squints and takes a closer look at the finishing of the lower hems. “Those buttons sure are something.”

Laure, the bride, rather tentatively asked for gold buttons along the last few inches of the leg, just as a quirky, deliberately off-putting detail. Éponine largely switches off her own tastes whenever she works so closely with a client, but she did have her doubts.

“Do you think it's a little too...”

“ _Honneur, Patrie_ , et cetera?” He bites back a grin. “Well, not if she is in fact a military woman.”

“Her fiancée was worried about this.” Zaira, who for the rest of the consultation had been reserved except where her own dress was concerned, was adamant on this point. _Please swing towards circus director before you swing towards marine officer_.

Bahorel shrugs. “You couldn't have just gone against her wishes. If they do think it's too uniformy, taking out the pleats might help.”

“I was going to suggest that,” Éponine says, content. “Do you know if you'll be around tonight? There are still some alterations to be made for a final fitting and pick-up tomorrow, but I'll stay if you can't.”

“Cosette will stay, surely.”

“Yes, I meant other than her.”

Formulating a response takes Bahorel a beat too long. “Actually – sorry, but I'm –”

The door to the sewing room opens, and Irma, back from her lunch break, greets them with a half-hearted wave.

“– going for drinks with Irma,” finishes Bahorel. “If we're still on for that?”

Some nonverbal communication takes place right before Éponine's eyes until Irma says, delayed and without much of an effort to sound convincing, “Sure.”

Éponine doesn't blame them.

 

It occurs to Éponine as she carefully adjusts Laure's shirt collar that Bahorel wasn't wrong – she is nervous. The stress of the past few days hasn't allowed her to really notice, but now that the moment is here, she keeps catching Laure's glance, perpetually waiting for her to indicate that she's even the slightest bit unhappy. Laure, who is cheerful by nature, doesn't give her the satisfaction.

“You think it's weird, I can tell.” Laure turns slightly before the mirror, shifts her weight a few times and watches the fabric move. “I _love_ it.”

“Well, weird is just something we call clothes we're unused to.” The more she looks at it – or maybe just by how pleased Laure herself seems to be with it, after all, this is for her – the more Éponine understands the piece's appeal. “Weird is what I like to hear.”

She has done not-weird for far too long, anyway.

The one thing Laure has doubts about are, predictably, the pleats, so even anticipating the few extra hours of work this will mean, Éponine offers to take them out for a more modern look.

“Thank you for being so flexible with this,” says Laure sincerely. “We've been looking all over for a place that would let us come in for more than one fitting along the way. Surely you know, but it's impossible to find boutiques that put this much care into consultations.”

“It's a competitive business.” Éponine, just then, would like nothing more than to throw the competition under the bus, if only to spite Montparnasse. “It's difficult to stay relevant unless you adjust to the pace most customers expect nowadays. Other boutiques are perhaps forced to take that a little more seriously than we do.”

“It didn't feel the same,” Laure insists. Éponine's skin prickles; compliments have the unintended and unreasonable effect of making her feel self-conscious.“None of them were as involved; none of them seemed to care as much as we did. Have you always wanted to go into fashion?”

“Since I was little.”

“It shows,” says Laure, so earnest Éponine almost envies her. “When did you both decide to open a store together?”

_We didn't decide_ , Éponine thinks. Cosette already made it a fact to be taken for granted when they were only just becoming friends – the earliest months on the course together, when Éponine had been much too cautious to become close with anyone, and Cosette was the one to keep seeking her out: constantly, persistently, and somehow without exerting any pressure whatsoever. Even then, Cosette got along easily with everyone else. She was and is a people person; she had no shortage of friends at school. For her to put so much effort and care into coaxing Éponine out of her shell seemed almost to go against the laws of nature.

It was this early in their friendship that Cosette begun to start sentences, without preamble or context, with the words 'Once we have our own store'. Store, singular. Not separate stores. Éponine had thought of it as a joke, something for Cosette to make light of until they graduated and Cosette would take her skills, her extensive network of patrons and mentors, and the seed money provided by her obviously generous father to go off on her own adventures.

Then, somehow, the longer they were friends, the more Éponine unravelled this maze of treasures and puzzles that was Cosette, the clearer it became to Éponine that somehow, for reasons beyond her own understanding, it had never been a joke. As time passed, it turned out that Cosette cared little for dreams – to her, there was no reason to consider the most ambitious goals to be anything other than within reach. Even less explicably, she wanted Éponine by her side to pursue them. 

“The idea took shape in our final year of university,” Éponine abbreviates. “We were lucky enough to have someone help us jump-start the shop, so we could both take business and sales classes for another year before we went full time.”

Laure smiles. “You're both so clearly in your element.”

Éponine is long prepared to move on from this topic, tied to an uncomfortable amount of painfully fond memories as it is, and she seeks desperately for alternatives. It's par for the course to chat a little bit about the client's partner during fittings: quite literally, it's in the books. Showing an interest establishes trust and a friendly connection, which is helpful for just about every part of their job. Éponine, depending on the client, finds herself easily detached from most of these conversations, but this time feels different. Briefly, she wonders if it makes her a bad person to sometimes be subconsciously dismissive of heterosexual romance.

“Did you mention who out of the two of you proposed?” She has back to the shirt, and attaches a clip to take it in.

“She beat me to it,” says Laure, lifting her arms as Éponine tugs on the fabric to straighten out the lower hem. “We were visiting family of hers in Morocco, and she took me on this stargazing trip to Merzouga. It's been a dream of mine forever, you know? I grew up in cities, I barely knew constellations for most of my life, so I've always wanted to go see them somewhere where it's really, really worth it. In retrospect, I don't know how I didn't see that coming when she insisted we go.”

“I have a feeling you needn't worry about her disliking this,” says Éponine, and doesn't think of stargazing trips. “She knows you so well.”

“Technically, we both have the right to veto parts of the other's outfit. But between you and me,” Laure smiles and looks down, almost shy, like she's embarrassed of the fact, “like I'd ever do that with hers.”

* * *

Zaira adores what's finished of Laure's suit, and Cosette is inclined to agree. She left Éponine as free a hand on it as Éponine wanted, and seeing her in her element has been as reassuring as it has been tense. Either Cosette misremembers from school, or Éponine genuinely wasn't always as distant when she threw herself into work then as she is now: either way, Cosette will place her hopes in this project. The suit is coming along well; eccentric as the design is, the cut of the pants is perfect for Laure, and the offbeat style makes sense for her in a way it couldn't possibly make sense for anyone else. Éponine's skill shines through in every meticulous stitch, and Cosette may miss her, but the hours she has put in show in the precise finish.

Zaira's dress is more classical, and more uniquely challenging at the same time. It is a simple enough structure: A-line, belted, layers and layers of chiffon forming the skirt, with the uppermost layers opening and overlapping in waves at the front of the dress. What takes up most of the time and effort are the embellishments, of which there are many. Overall, the dress will still look understated, with most of the decorations layering white over white, but before it can reach its ideal of faux simplicity, hours will go into providing the bodice's embroidered rows of florals, the spark provided by interwoven silver thread, the adornment of pearls around the neckline.

“Are you sure the prospect of it isn't too daunting?” asks Zaira when Cosette, in the dressing room after they've presented the dress to a hopelessly enchanted Laure, gives her a brief estimation of how long the embellishments still to come will take them. “I'm sure we could do with a little less, or at least without hand-embroidered details.”

“It's a _service_ – listen, Zaira.” Cosette shakes her head strictly. “Out of the question, unless you're unhappy with the design as it is now. Are you?”

Zaira smiles and lowers her eyes. “I love it. It might even reconcile my mother with her daughter not getting married in a takchita.”

“Then it's perfect, and will remain as it is.” Carefully, Cosette wraps the belt around Zaira's waist, fastening it at the side with a clip, as the clasp still hasn't been chosen. “If anything, I'm a little frustrated I'm not more familiar with these techniques.”

Zaira's eyes sweep across Cosette once, very briefly, taking in just enough. She inclines her head, but only holds Cosette's gaze, expectant without asking the question that hangs in the air.

Between Cosette's professionalism as a saleswoman and her deep-seated wish to find common ground with someone who might be sympathetic, the latter wins out, and she says, before she can stop herself, “My mother was from Tangier.”

“Oh.” Presumably startled, but kind enough not to get stuck on the use of the past tense, Zaira nods. “Have you ever been?”

“Not yet.” For a number of reasons that coincided with a number of phases – for the longest time, her earliest memories were too painful to dig into, and Cosette was and is quite confident in the identity that being raised in Paris by a very catholic Haitian man has provided her with. Learning more about her mother is a long, slow process, and it never seems to find a natural conclusion. _One day_ , Cosette thinks whenever her mind lingers too long with her mother's home. _Some day_. She smiles. “This doesn't feel like a bad first step. And I hear you proposed while in Morocco?”

It's balm for Cosette's soul, listening to engagement stories, and brings them at last back to an appropriate topic of conversation. Zaira is one of their more reserved clients, but clearly loves talking about Laure too much for that to matter, and it makes Cosette feel warm and pleased and strangely wistful.

“If you'll forgive me the clichéd question,” Cosette says, having finally unpinned the bodice completely, “when did you know she was the one?”

“Hm.” She takes her time in responding, and Cosette, too invested to hurry, takes her time in draping the bodice over the clothes hook. “I don't think it was any one moment – I'm really not even quite sure I trust momentary feelings, or impulses. Not when it comes to love, anyway.” Zaira's cheeks have darkened the slightest shade – ridiculous and amazing, Cosette thinks, what can constitute an intimate confession. It almost feels like something not meant for her ears. “It's the longevity of it, the reliability. Everyone thinks that sounds boring; I don't know. When you've realised throughout difficulties and ups and downs with someone that the one constant in your life is that you love them, that's... what better thing could there be to build on?”

Cosette mechanically unpins Zaira's veil. Her heart threatens to beat out of her chest, and something is pushing its way to the surface that she doesn't understand. Under her hands, the veil feels strange, like someone else is touching the fabric.

Zaira's voice pulls her back, soft and confident.

“I just understood gradually that there was no version of my life that made sense without her in it.”

“My,” murmurs Cosette, and is glad for Zaira's back to be turned on her, because she has never allowed herself to cry in a client's fitting, and she's not about to have witnesses now that it's happening. “You two are quite the miracle.”

Without seeing her, Cosette can hear the smile in Zaira's voice. “The best thing is, I think, that we're really very ordinary.”

 

Cosette understands, genuinely and fully, when Bahorel sweeps himself and Irma right away the moment they close up the store – the day has been long, and none of them should be asked to stay for the last few alterations that have gone unfinished for tomorrow.

“Genuinely sorry,” says Bahorel, one foot in his bright red brogue, one arm pulling on a sherpa lined denim jacket, “but there is,” he looks from Éponine, on her way to the break room, to Cosette, still stuck at a desk with her embroidery hoop and approximately a dozen pearls, “absolutely no way of postponing this appointment.”

“You're free to go,” says Cosette, gesturing towards the door in her grandest manner. “The two of us will be perfectly fine.”

“Yes,” says Bahorel, a touch too emphatic. “The two of you.”

A moment of strangely extensive eye contact that Cosette refuses to try and makes sense of, and he's followed Irma out the door.

Éponine is on the couch, papers balanced on her knees as her pencil moves in little staccato movements across the sketchbook, and for a moment, the sight is almost too nostalgic to bear. Cosette knocks on the open door.

“Mind if I sit with you?”

Éponine starts a little, then bites her lip. “No fabrics in the break room,” she says softly.

Cosette puts the embroidery hoop down on a sewing table behind her and walks over to the sofa, wondering why she asked. Would she have had to do that, a year ago? A month?

“You know,” she says, sitting next to Éponine and distantly wondering if she's slightly too close, “maybe we should reconsider getting some help while the commission is still on.”

“Do you feel overwhelmed?” Éponine turns to her, the closest to alarmed as she gets in her disposition of carefully maintained calm. “If there's anything I can take off your hands –”

“Heavens, no. You're not taking anything off anyone's hands unless it's a valid gift certificate for a very fancy spa day.” Cosette sighs, and, as tension slowly begins to leave her, drops her head on Éponine's shoulder. It feels warm – familiar. “I know we can do this. I'm just wondering if we should have to – you seem overworked; are you sure this is how you want this to be?”

The response is a long stretch of silence in which Cosette feels infinitely grateful not to have to look Éponine in the eyes, and that in itself makes it worse. When has this ever been a problem for them?

“I really care about this,” says Éponine finally, when Cosette's eyes have almost drifted shut. “I know we could make it easier on ourselves. I know we don't have anything to prove. I just... I love doing this, all of it, start to finish. There's no step of the process that I want to part with. It's been a long time since I've felt this protective of something.”

And with that, getting help is out of the question. Cosette feels similarly about it, anyway – any additional set of hands, she'd get to work on alterations such as the ones they're stuck with now, not on the commission itself, but if Éponine can't see it as an option, it isn't one. “It is special, isn't it,” she murmurs, and shuts her eyes. Éponine is so close, and her shoulder is comfortable – they are exactly the right height to sit together like this, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, Cosette feeling the ever-present tension in Éponine's frame and the slight buzz when she hums in agreement.

“It is.”

Cosette says, softer now, “I cried during Zaira's fitting.”

The tension picks up for a moment, even if Éponine's voice, when it comes, is gentle as always. “I'm sorry,” she says, and it is strange to feel so known – only Éponine would understand that there had to be more to a few tears shed in a dressing room while fitting someone else's wedding dress. She adds, careful not to make the question an obligation, “Why?”

_Because what she said made me feel lonely_ , thinks Cosette, but that's not the reason. _Because she probably speaks my mother's native language, and I don't_. _Because she understood that she never wanted to be parted from someone, so she asked that girl for permission, and the girl agreed_.

“I don't know,” she says, and is frightened to understand that she means it. She is more frightened, briefly, to hear how fragile her voice sounded on those last three words, but then the tension in Éponine's shoulder drains away, and takes with it Cosette's anxiety.

“Okay,” says Éponine quietly. Her arm comes around Cosette's shoulders, and a hand finds her hair, fingertips brushing through it in small circles, and Cosette wants to save this feeling and guard it closely, like a secret, like an escape, for as long as she can. Éponine's arm tightens around her. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's delay is brought to you by lots of cough syrup and the third head cold in two months! The next chapter should be up this Sunday, lest I forget the righteous fury that fuels this fic. 
> 
> Thank you for reading; your comments mean the world. <3


	5. Chapter 5

Five days to Laure and Zaira's final fitting and pick-up, and Cosette is holding on to sanity with just the tips of her fingers. Today started as one of the better days, and Cosette's optimism for this project (reasonably, she thinks, because at least she hasn't had to cry in Éponine's arms again since the last time) has lasted right up until this moment.

She has only just acquainted today's ten o'clock appointment and her bridesmaids with their macaron selection when Julie taps her shoulder to alert her to the second client, plus entourage, that has just entered the store. Already frazzled, Cosette directs Julie to take over, and appears in the sewing room five minutes later.

“Who here has always wanted to try their hand at sales?”

“I'll do it,” says Irma at the same time that Bahorel says, flatly, “I think Éponine has some experience.” He adds, directed at Éponine when silence falls, “Didn't you co-run, like, a small scale bridal place for a bit?”

“Éponine's got her hands full,” says Cosette sternly. “Irma, are you sure? I'll be with you, obviously, but –”

“I haven't seen the sun in a full week.” Irma has already left her desk and is pulling her hair out of her sensible ponytail. Lucky for all of them, she does dress the part of sales assistant. “I'd take less as an excuse to get to work in the show room for an hour.”

“What happened?” Éponine is on her feet as well, and Cosette hurriedly shakes her head, but Éponine, as ever, thinks too fast. “No, _no_. I've messed up the scheduling, haven't I? Cosette –”

“Don't worry about it,” says Cosette as earnestly as she can with half of her still trying to get a grip on the situation. “We've got this.”

And they do, by some definitions. The consultations end in one enthusiastic yes and one hesitant maybe from the two brides, but Cosette can't shake the feeling all through her lunch break that the second client would have been more inclined to make a firm decision if she hadn't had to change in the quickly re-purposed sewing room. Cosette is not entirely surprised, then, when she returns from her lunch run, having brought dessert for everyone as a lead-up to a hopefully successful apology, only to find the others assembled in the break room and ready to mutiny.

“Okay,” says Cosette slowly and sets her box of cupcakes down on the kitchen counter. Éponine is leaning against the fridge, shoulders sunken, and catches Cosette's gaze – she looks miserable and apologetic, like this comes back to her rather than to both of them, and Cosette gives her what she can only hope is an encouraging smile. “Who wants to go first?”

“You need to hire help,” says Julie immediately. “If not in tailoring, then in sales. I _like_ doing consultations, you know that, but I'm off for the day and I'm not coming back in tomorrow if there's more of this waiting.”

“I don't know, I kind of like not working for a full hour because someone needs our workspace to get changed in.” Once all eyes are on Bahorel after this, he grins. “Just kidding; I've already called a friend to come around and help out.”

“You have not,” says Cosette at the same time that Éponine, sharply, says, “Bahorel, _later_.”

“Nothing here gets done before we've all discussed it.” Cosette inhales deeply and tries to, haphazardly, come up with a plan of action. “Or at least until any of you have discussed it with either of us. Bringing in help is on the table from now on, but not before we've talked it through, all right?”

“He talked to me,” Éponine says quietly. “Sorry. We have another consultation today and a pick-up tomorrow; I figured it was better to be quick, and he said he knew someone. It's... I'm sorry. What happened earlier was my fault, and this seemed like the fastest solution.”

 _But you didn't want this_. Cosette is frozen for a moment, and then, on autopilot, turns back to the counter. It's not a disaster, she tells herself. Éponine has never gone over her head on anything, not in two years, and it's unfair to read anything into that, especially when they're already in a situation as exceptional as this – but Cosette can't help it. It makes no sense to be hurt, but she is. Éponine talking to anyone but her before making a decision is unprecedented.

She takes a breath, and seeks for something to hold on to, which she finds frosted and sweet in front of her. Losing it comes later, she thinks. “Cupcake, anyone?”

 

Bahorel squeezes by the counter to get to the door some time in the early afternoon, only to return arm in arm with a radiant fashion disaster whose experiments in colour blocking would surely have the power to kill a lesser man. Cosette stares at them wordlessly until Bahorel clears his throat and says, mercifully, “Cosette, Jehan. Jehan – my wonderful employer.”

Jehan is garishly bright not only in colour, but also in disposition; he holds out a hand and then looks quickly to Bahorel before he goes for a low curtsy instead. “Mademoiselle, you and your partner have my utmost respect for employing a menace such as this.”

“Jehan, was it?” Cosette folds closed the binder she was going through, and walks around the counter. “Let's get to know each other. Thank you, Bahorel.”

Jehan is dragged into the break room and sat on the couch by Cosette, who pulls up a chair across from him and puts on her best negotiating face – the same she uses for bankers and their landlord. It never fails. “Tell me about your qualifications.”

Jehan blinks. “Is this an interview?”

“We're doing this by the book. Qualifications? Previous experience, anything?”

“Well, nothing on paper.” Jehan makes a point of finding the most complicated way of adjusting his posture that will allow him to gesture at the brightly coloured palazzo pants he's wearing. “I make most of my clothes; I've written two or three freelance pieces for fashion blogs. Mostly on street style.”

“All right, check,” says Cosette with a cursory glance at the pants. Its seams are well-finished; its pattern atrocious. “What's your hourly rate, and are you registered as a micro-enterprise?”

“I am, actually!” Jehan smiles, more than pleased to be able to have something to counter Cosette's rigorous professionalism with. “For translations and Tarot, normally. My hourly rate for sewing work is currently coming in at around zero euros.”

“Impossible, I'm afraid; we only accept freelancers on the condition that they demand at least twenty per cent above minimum wage.”

“Good on you!” He's beaming. Cosette isn't going to run this one down any time soon, and suddenly, she wonders what in the world she was doing in even attempting it. It's not him she's angry with – if she is angry with anyone, which remains as of yet undetermined. “Make it twelve, then. Also, what's the name of your father's charity again?”

“Hilarious.” It actually is, a little, and Cosette shakes her head with a smile. “You know, you're making it very difficult for me to be as rightfully outraged about Bahorel's solo run as I should be.”

“Ah.” Jehan nods. “He didn't make the dimensions of that entirely clear to me, I just figured showing up couldn't hurt. What you do here seems pretty great.” He smiles. “That said, I'd have no qualms at all both with leaving right now and with giving Bahorel a very stern talking to about boundaries and so on the next time an opportunity presents itself.”

“There's no need.” Cosette exhales and feels some of the days weight fall away. “It wasn't all him, really.” She takes in Jehan, his strange, well-made clothes and the general air of confusion that makes him just shy of maladroit. “We really do have general freelance agreements, we just hardly use them. If you want to stay for a bit and help out with a consultation or two, I'd be grateful.”

Jehan, who is anything but dressed for a role in sales, and whose absolutely inexplicable charisma Cosette is certain will make up for that in an instance, has a gleam in his eye when he nods. “I'd love to.”

The final consultation of the day goes well, and the bride-to-be settles on a dress before two hours are out. Jehan throws himself with so much enthusiasm into his role of gimmick-of-the-day that Cosette finds herself trying half as hard as usual – this day, in her view, can hardly get much worse, and her priorities since this morning have shifted utterly. Since their lunch break, she hasn't seen Éponine, cooped up with Bahorel and Irma in the sewing room as she surely was, but she hasn't been off Cosette's mind for even five minutes at a time. She feels absent and simultaneously horribly guilty throughout the whole consultation; later, she asks for Jehan's help with getting the rejected dresses ready for display again, and realises that she already doesn't remember the bride's name.

“Would it be very weird to ask for a reference once I'm done here?” Jehan, having just been shown how to use a garment steamer, is already hooked. “It's so addictive, I'm starting to see why this is Bahorel's longest job on record.”

“I know,” says Cosette weakly. There is something of an adrenaline rush to seeing wrinkles disappear before your eyes. She placed perhaps an unfair amount of hope into this precise process being enough to bring her joy after today's... everything. It's working, partially. “Wait, his longest?”

“Oh, absolutely. Neither of us are really cut out for staying with one thing for more than two months at a time.”

Cosette squints at the layers of taffeta before her and suddenly remembers a snippet from a very drunk conversation. “That sounds restless,” she notes.

“I'd wither without restlessness.” Jehan smiles. “I mean, I'm sure stability has its charms, and it might have for me too, eventually. But not now. Just think – we have so much monotony still ahead; there's just something about being held in suspense, you know? Let nothing abide.” He glances at her, the quickest, clearest look. “You understand,” he surmises.

Cosette thinks, _not at all_. She also thinks that maybe not too long ago, she might have understood Jehan better, back when she was still as confident as he is of securities that would never go away. Will Bahorel make his mind up in a month or so, and fulfil Jehan's accidental prophecy?

Where will Éponine be, a year from now?

Her hands rest on a satin hanger, frozen in place like time has stopped, as Cosette realises that in all these years, she never thought of Éponine and herself as anything but a single unit. What a selfish thing to do to someone without their consent – what a reckless way of loving someone, to tie them to you in your own mind without admitting it even to yourself, or saying anything out loud.

It's all so obvious, when Cosette looks at the two of them separately. Éponine will leave; now that she has had this again, she will not be able to go without it for long.

“You can have a reference letter if you'd like to stay on for the week,” says Cosette, through the mist and blur of it all. “I promise, monotony won't find you here.”

Jehan has either missed her overly long beat of silence, which she doubts, or is kind enough not to acknowledge it. “No,” he says, and steps back to nod contently at the steamed and fluffed-up princess gown before him. “I don't think it could.”

* * *

Éponine was used to sewing like this for a long time – it was how she learned, in what feels like it must have been another life; she learned by sewing to drown out noise, sewing to steady her hands, sewing to flee into the idea of creating something of her own. Sewing to stop thinking. She hasn't done this in a while; she hasn't needed it. Stitch by stitch, reality is meant to become unimportant. It's not working today.

Perhaps it's for the better, she thinks, because wasn't this what drove everything over the edge in the first place? She is meant to be diligent, she always has been, her organisation is meticulous and leaves no gaps, because she has never been able to allow herself anything less. In two years of scheduling appointments for their shop, she hasn't made an error. Cosette trusts her with this, _has_ trusted her with this, as naturally as Éponine trusts her with budgeting, as naturally as they trust each other to pick up where the other leaves off.

Part of her would have felt infinitely better if Cosette hadn't been so unwilling to place blame where it was due. They were all overworked, yes, but this was Éponine's mistake to fix – and even that she managed to mess up.

It's impossible to forget, the look on Cosette's face earlier in the break room. Éponine still isn't entirely sure how she could have been that stupid.

She wants to talk to Azelma. She wants to curl up at home and forget about the world.

“Hey.” Éponine flinches, and Irma, whose sewing machine must have stopped rattling while Éponine was lost in her little spiral, nods at the fabric in her hands. “Let me see.”

Carefully, Éponine unfolds the piece, smoothing out the creases at the lapels before she holds it up for Irma to examine.

“Hm.” She reaches to fold open the jacket, inspecting the lining. “That's gorgeous, Ép. Look, Bahorel.”

Bahorel looks up from his own work and immediately frowns. “Oh, wow. Is that really for the same person who wanted the sailor pants?”

“The very same,” murmurs Éponine. She just has the buttons left to put on at this point – Bahorel will take offense at those again, she supposes – and truthfully, looking at it now, Éponine herself has to admit that this piece is _good_. It's well-designed, and well-finished, and even the dark piping Éponine was worried about provides the perfect contrast to the rest of the jacket's sharp white.

For all her emotional ineptitude, there is some comfort in being reminded that she can still make an excellent jacket.

“Anyone up for coffee?” She swallows around the lump in her throat and places the jacket carefully back on her desk. “We deserve a break.”

Bahorel joins her, and she's glad of it; there's no telling where her mind would wander when left alone. He takes his time getting the filter machine going, which Éponine can only smile at in resignation. Strange, the human impulse to procrastinate more the more urgent a situation is.

“Sorry about how everything went down earlier.” Bahorel has his back turned to her, so he doesn't see her expression of surprise – which is lucky, because she feels unkind for it immediately. “I think my idea behind it was to make the whole thing short and painless, which... well.”

“Don't worry about it.” Éponine curls up on her chair, resting her chin on her knees. “There was no good way of going about it. Cosette – she asked a while back if we shouldn't hire help, and I think I accidentally shut her down completely. I thought I could fix this by showing her that she didn't have to put me first like that, and it... just made everything worse. But it wasn't your mistake.”

Bahorel sighs. He flops down on the sofa, arms spread out, and says, “I swear to all that is holy, if everyone in this shop stopped being so damn thoughtful for just a second – look at me. Éponine, tell me I was kind of an inconsiderate dick about this.”

“You really were,” she concedes, but it doesn't make her feel better, “and so was I.”

“I guess that's the best I'll get.”

“If you like; there's a thoughtless question I was never going to ask until now, but am really desperate to hear answered,” she offers, and Bahorel perks up.

“Please.”

“Why the turnabout?” She watches him get up to pour her the first cup of coffee, and accepts it gratefully. “Why work with the initiative, why commit to not getting rearrested? You were so nostalgic the first time we talked. You didn't want to give that all up, did you? Not completely.”

“No, I did.” Bahorel stirs sugar into his own coffee. “I never – I knew what I was doing, you know? Every step of the way. Comparatively wealthy kid, dropped out of elite education; I knew I could get out of pretty much anything. Once you've had that a few times, playing it up just for the sake of it feels almost... it's arrogant. Like you're playing at something that's a far more horrifying reality for someone else.” He pauses to have a sip, grimace, and add more sweetener. “Which sounds very mature, but the couple of months I was serving when Valjean came around were for banging up a Lexus on the Avenue Montaigne. Make of that what you will.”

Éponine does. “Sounds fair enough.”

“Oh, absolutely. Wasn't random, either. It belonged to the father of a friend. Complete asshole.”

“Still sounds you weren't ready to leave that life behind.”

“It was time.” Bahorel halts, and looks down at his mug. “Can I be honest?”

Éponine has to stop herself from scoffing. “You weren't before?”

“I wanted a full-time job so Jehan would be taken care of.” He smiles at his coffee – there is something bashful to the expression that Éponine has never seen in him, and it startles her. How did she miss this? “At least one of us should be able to make some claim to stability, and it was never going to be him. The freedom to not give a fuck is essential to his happiness, so him having it is essential to mine.”

Jehan only showed up once or twice in the sewing room throughout the day, and while there was definitely _something_ between the two of them, naturally flirty as Bahorel is, Éponine just assumed that was how he acted around friends. This is different. This is something she feels a bit embarrassed for not picking up on. “How long have you been together?”

“Oh, we're not. Not permanently, not yet. It's an – on and off thing.” There it is again, that smile that's almost shy and that Éponine wouldn't have expected to see on Bahorel's face in a million years. “Hopefully not for much longer, now that I actually have something to offer.”

“I haven't been doing you justice,” admits Éponine, more freely than she would be comfortable with if she were her usual self. There seems little risk of anything she could say making this afternoon any worse. “That's a big sacrifice to make for someone when you haven't been promised anything.”

“Can't fuck around and stay in limbo forever,” says Bahorel. “Or, I guess you can, but the fewest people are cut out for that. We certainly aren't.”

Éponine doesn't ask who _we_ refers to. She feels leaden and light-headed at once; the day can't be over soon enough. “It'll work out,” she tells him with strange confidence. “He seems too smart to let someone like you go.”

“High praise.” Bahorel winks. “Let's hope you're right.”

 

By the time the others have left for the day, Éponine has long submitted to the inevitability of her and Cosette being the only ones left in the shop, but her pulse still picks up when she turns out the sewing room lights to find Cosette at the counter, tidying today's accumulated mess of paperwork.

“There you are.” Cosette smiles warmly – of course she does – and Éponine feels she will swallow her own heart. “Two cupcakes from earlier are still in the fridge, if you want to take them home for Zelma.”

“Cosette,” says Éponine. “I'm –”

“ _Not_ sorry.” Cosette rests a hand on her arm; Éponine, steadfast, manages not to pull it back. “We're all struggling, you most of all. You mustn't feel guilty about anything. I won't allow it.”

“We should –” Éponine takes a deep breath, and then a second one, and then shakes her head and starts over. “Friday, after closing – or whenever works for you, but once this is all done – can we talk?” She doesn't know where to look. Cosette's eyes, when she catches a glimpse of them, are poorly masking her concern, and the counter is flecked with specks of their decorative glitter. “We have so much to go over, and there's – I need to clear some things up. If that's all right.”

Cosette's hand slips from Éponine's wrist to her hand, and she squeezes it softly. “Of course,” she says. Éponine wishes she knew what she said to cause this underlying hurt in Cosette's expression already; there seems so little she knows to do right these days. “Of course. Any time.”

Éponine can only nod. If she wanted to, she couldn't withdraw her hand from Cosette's grasp, but then Cosette leans in and hugs her tightly, and Éponine closes her eyes.

“We've got this,” Cosette says as she draws back, and smiles. “Just picture them this Friday. It's all so – _so_ worth it, Éponine.”

Éponine can't think of Friday, or what she might lose then, or if it'll be worth it. “You're right,” she says nonetheless. After all, the day won't be about her. “It is.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for my own personal sense of satisfaction, I like to imagine the Lexus was probably Gillenormand's. 
> 
> One chapter left! Thank you for reading, and I will (hopefully) see you all next Sunday now that we're back on schedule. <3


	6. Chapter 6

Éponine must have dreamt this week – it certainly doesn't feel real now, but then, that comes with spending it either in a windowless sewing room or in the dark in front of her laptop, letting mindless Youtube playlists drown out the constant white noise of anxiety. Today, she feels calm for the first time, and she doesn't try to classify why. The possibility of it being the calm of someone being led to their execution is all too likely.

There are real things to focus on, at least, important things. They've already seen Zaira in her dress, which needs no more alterations. The bodice is a masterpiece in which every hour of work reveals itself in another intricate detail; it leaves Éponine in awe of Cosette and Irma. Embroidering Laure's collar alone took Éponine an entire day, by the end of which she nearly saw double.

What a ridiculous pace of work; what an outrageous thing to talk Cosette into, and still, Éponine can't bring herself to regret it. Laure's jacket will need one or two minor tweaks, but she loves it, and her nervous giddiness right as they're about to show Zaira makes Éponine's chest feel tight.

Zaira sits with Cosette and Jehan on the sofa when Éponine leads Laure out of the changing room, and starts to her feet when the door opens. Éponine takes a few steps to the side, and, not knowing what to do with herself, she looks at Cosette.

Cosette has stood up as well; she murmurs a direction to Jehan and then leans in to give Éponine's arm a careful squeeze. “Please watch,” she says softly. “You did this.”

 _It doesn't feel like I've done anything_ , Éponine wants to say, but that's not true, and the instinct is misguided. Laure is beaming, and Zaira doesn't let go of her hand as she whispers a light-hearted apology about having doubted the choice in buttons. The two of them did that, but not on their own; Éponine allows herself and Cosette to accept part of the credit. Something quiet whispers to her that she would be able to enjoy this more, were circumstances different, and she silences it with a glance at Cosette next to her.

They've had a voice for far too long, those spiteful remnants of insecurity and fear.

Once it doesn't feel like as much of an intrusion, Éponine steps forward and points out to Zaira the final little alterations that are due; a tweaking of the shirt collar, a slight adjustment of the jacket's darts, in short, nothing they can't easily compartmentalise.

“It'll only take a little while, if you're both okay with staying for another half hour,” Éponine promises when they're back in the dressing room and she helps Laure out of her jacket.

“Please. You should take extra time doing it, with how quickly you've been able to work on the rest of this.” Laure stops undoing the buttons of the shirt for a moment, and fixes Éponine with a startlingly sincere look. “Thank you, genuinely. We – neither of us expected to find a place like this, towards the end.”

“How did you two end up with our email, anyway?” Éponine feels a tightness in her chest again, and turns to drape the jacket carefully over the hanger, leaving Laure to slip her hoodie back on. “These things are always helpful for us to know – adjusting marketing strategies, and so on.”

“Oh, one of the people in another place mentioned you. I think he noticed their store wasn't going to work out for us, but we were both still kind of puzzled. Way to be a decent person, if terrible salesman, and point us to the competition.”

Éponine's hands still. “That's unusual,” she says, in a voice painfully kept even. “Which store was it?”

Laure grimaces. “ _Cécile's_. Everyone and their mother recommends them; we figured it was worth a try, but talk about generic.”

“Well,” says Éponine, and resolutely decides to put the unravelling of this particular conundrum off, far off. Her own smile sneaks up on her, and she blames it on her perfectly justified pride of the outfit. “You certainly won't have generic now.”

 

It isn't four in the afternoon by the time they send them off – Éponine, oddly stoic, Cosette, genuine enough for the two of them. For a strange, lasting moment after the door closes, they stand quietly by the counter, the sound of Irma's sewing machine rattling from the sewing room providing the only sense of normalcy Éponine is capable of grasping at. Then, Cosette lets out a breath, and laughs.

“We're closed,” she says, and marches immediately towards the entrance to flip the sign and turn the front lights out. “No one is doing anything more today. Irma, turn that machine off _right now_.”

“Oh, you're closing up?” Jehan pops his head out of the break room. “Does that mean I can order food?”

“There are no more pick-ups for the day, and in the unlikely event that anyone wanted to drop in on a Friday after four, they can come back next week.” Cosette catches Éponine's gaze, and for a moment, Éponine thinks she sees some trepidation there, but it disappears as quickly as it came. “Jehan,” adds Cosette, raising her voice, “while you're still playing assistant, take everyone's pizza order.”

They end up clustered in the break room with Jehan, Irma, and Bahorel sharing the sofa, which mostly works because Jehan is half draped across Bahorel and Irma perches confidently on the back rest. The mood of it pulls Éponine back straight into her student days, and it seems to do the same for Cosette, who looks just about ready to suggest a game of spin the bottle. She seems as relieved as Éponine knows she herself should feel, but there's a knot in her mind, impeding any sense of easiness that should come with a finished task.

“Where are you headed after this, Jehan?” From where she's sitting, Irma can only touch Jehan's shoulder with her toe. “Back to Tarot?”

“I might branch out,” says Jehan and casually hands the crust of his pizza slice to Bahorel. “Who knows? I've got paid experience in tailoring and sales now, that makes me a... Quindecuple threat. Plenty of options.”

“We can let you know the next time there's a trade fair for textiles around, split the gas money,” Éponine suggests. “Isn't CTCO coming up?”

Cosette looks somewhat startled when Éponine turns to look at her. “It is,” she says quickly. “Gosh, it's so late in the year already.”

They haven't talked about going, Éponine notices, haven't even brought it up to Bahorel, who will certainly want to come. It's not the only thing that's gotten lost in the fray, Éponine is sure, but usually, they're more on top of things. Perhaps that's what puzzled Cosette.

“I don't want to talk about textiles or sewing machines,” announces Bahorel, “frankly, without the pizza, I wouldn't even want to be around any of them. I'm thinking about throwing out my own as we speak.”

“And quitting your job?” Cosette tilts her head.

“I'll provide for us,” says Jehan, patting Bahorel's thigh. “Never worry, I wouldn't allow you to subject yourself to these conditions.”

Éponine can't help a smile, small as it is.

“These conditions are pizza on a couch, and they're over now,” Cosette reminds them. “We're back to macarons and normal hours next week, and we expect you all to settle for that.”

Irma scoffs. “Whatever will we do without five-minute lunch breaks?”

“Honestly,” says Cosette, with a glance at Éponine, as if asking for her agreement is necessary. “Thank you for sticking this out with us, everyone.”

Bahorel, accepting another piece of crust from Jehan, says, easily and as if it's nothing at all, “Any time.”

Partially, the knot in Éponine's chest unwinds.

 

She finds herself in a strange déjà-vu once the rest of them have gone; it's always her and Cosette that leave last, but this is no conversation to have on their break room couch, and Cosette seems as disinclined as Éponine to spend any more time than necessary in the workplace for today.

Cosette, putting on her coat, has her back turned on Éponine, and for a moment, Éponine thinks that she could bear it, really, for a little longer, or for as long as it could possibly take to give up on whatever flimsy hope is not allowing her to move on. They've been close together all these years, who knows what might happen? Cosette could meet someone, that'd be sure to put an end to Éponine's stubborn little crush. It's a miracle, really, that it hasn't happened already. Maybe this will take care of itself. Maybe she doesn't have to say anything. Maybe, in time, Éponine will move on just as a natural matter of course.

Cosette turns and – genuinely, after the hell week they've had – smiles at her, and Éponine dismisses the entire train of thought she'd only just tried to fool herself with.

“Still up for a chat?” asks Cosette. “We can just call it a day, if you're too tired.”

“No, I'm fine.” She attempts a smile in return, knowing it comes across as the weak imitation that it is. She hasn't told Azelma about this, and she feels sorry for it now, but there is a sort of comfort just to knowing Azelma would want to listen. Even if this does end in shambles - she won't have to hide the fallout of it from anyone when she comes home. “We should talk.”

* * *

“Do you want to come to mine? I can't stand this place a minute longer,” Cosette says, trying to sound light-hearted. “Or we can do drinks somewhere fancy, we've certainly earned it.”

Éponine shifts her weight, looking unhappy with either option. She looks unhappy with everything. If there was a kind way of begging her to say it already, just to put both of them out of their misery, Cosette would happily take it.

“I'll walk home with you,” says Éponine. “Let's go.”

It's chilly outside, but not freezing; today was a sunny day, and neither of them have dressed well for walking without the sun shining down to warm the wool of their coats. Cosette links their arms; Éponine is terrible at admitting when she's cold. She watches her breath in the air, and tries not to think.

“I know you don't want me to apologise,” says Éponine after a while, over the street noise and the sound of Cosette's heels on the ground. “And I won't – for the nonsense on Monday, or anything else that happened this week. I've made my peace with that.”

“You had better,” says Cosette, and manages a smile. “We _did_ it, Éponine.”

“Yeah.”

There is, at least, some happiness in her voice – well, if not happiness, at least contentment. Cosette will settle for that.

“Still, though, I just wanted to – I'm sorry if I've been off lately, I know it shows more than I want it to. I mean, I know _now_. I had to be sat down and lectured by my little sister first, which... go figure.”

“It's okay,” says Cosette automatically, because it is. Éponine's life has never made anything easy for her. They are, neither of them, at peace with the past, and Cosette always liked to think that at least this, they understood in each other, even if no one else did. Pain comes back in a wealth of unreasonable, unpredictable ways. “I understand.”

“No –” Éponine stops herself, surprised as Cosette is by the firmness of her voice. “Sorry, I didn't mean... The point is, I've been selfish to keep this from you when I knew it was taking its toll on how I act, and how I work. Please don't take it as any sort of flaw in you, I _know_ I can talk to you, I know I don't have to worry about – how you'll react. I think you're the only person in the world where I am absolutely certain of that.”

And there it is, the free-fall feeling Cosette has been dreading all day. “Please don't worry,” she says, sincerely. “This sort of thing isn't rational. I don't take it personally, and I think – I think I knew this was coming, anyway.”

“You did?”

The fear in Éponine's voice startles Cosette, so she holds Éponine's arm a little tighter in hers. “It's just... occurred to me lately, now and then. I mean it, don't worry,” she adds quickly, because there is a sudden tension in Éponine's arm, and it feels silly, suddenly, to be walking so closely while talking with so much caution. “I'm not upset.”

“Oh,” says Éponine, in hardly more than a breath. She falls silent, then, and they walk on. Cosette's eyes follow the play of light and shadow cast by the street lamps, and she thinks that she will keep talking, coax the final request out of Éponine, eventually, but not yet.

Not yet, she thinks with every other street lamp, like the coward she is. Why delay the inevitable, when all it does is make them both miserable? Éponine wants to leave, and Cosette will let her go – who knows, in the long run, maybe that'll be a good thing even for Cosette, although she can't see how just yet – and she will have to convince Éponine that it's okay, because Éponine doesn't do things unless she feels sure they won't hurt anyone. How many months has Cosette had to prepare? She can do this.

They're almost at her building, and somewhere along the way, Éponine has pulled her arm gently out of Cosette's. Cosette walks with her hands in her coat pockets, and feels her time has run out.

“The last thing I want is for you to be unhappy on my account,” she hears herself say. “So whatever I can do – any way I can make this easier for you going forward, whatever it is, I'll do it, and I don't want you to ever, ever think that I would hold anything against you.”

“Make this easier,” echoes Éponine, in a flat voice, so Cosette stops to face her.

“Any way I can,” she says firmly.

Éponine's cheeks have darkened, are flushed perhaps from the cold. She won't look at Cosette, eyes darting to the ground, to the street, to the gate of the front yard of Cosette's house, and finally, she shakes her head. “I'm sorry, I can't –”

“No! Éponine,” Cosette pleads, and curses herself, and reaches for Éponine's arm. “Please, I promise, I've made my peace with this. I know I'm probably not too convincing, I know I reacted badly with Montparnasse, I know I seem overbearing, but you have to believe me, I'd never want to hold you back.”

“Montparnasse?” Stunned, Éponine looks from Cosette's hand on her arm to Cosette's face, and exhales before she says, utterly lost, “What are you talking about?”

“Wait.” Pause, stop, rewind. Cosette lets go of her arm, and allows herself to realise, as ever, far too late, that she hasn't actually given Éponine opportunity to say the words _I want to stop working in our joint business_. In fact, she hasn't given her opportunity to say many words at all. “Oh - oh, you really weren't trying to tell me you were leaving, were you?”

“ _Leaving_?” Éponine sucks in a sharp breath, and her expression shifts into something cool and sardonic, but her anger isn't directed outwards, and Cosette understands nothing. “I've really seemed that miserable, haven't I,” she mutters. “I did that to you, I made you think - fuck this.” She breathes deeply. “Cosette, for me to leave the shop, you'd have to kick me out personally, and even then, I'd put up a hell of a fight.”

Cosette's hands, still useless before her, would hurt with the bite from the cold, were she able to feel anything. “But – then what was it that you meant to tell me?”

“That I'm in love with you,” says Éponine, and doesn't seem to notice the weight of it at all, worked up as she is, “which seems like a much smaller thing to drop on you now, considering that you actually thought I was _quitting_ – how have I ever made you believe I could even _think_ of doing that, I would never – Montparnasse, too, the bastard, him leaving made you start worrying, didn't it?” She huffs. “Cosette, I'd sooner hot-glue Swarovski crystals onto tulle in the sewing room for the rest of my _life_ than leave the shop. And this isn't ideal either, fuck knows I've spent a long enough time agonising over that, but I can work on getting over it now that I've said it, so long as you're okay with it, and we don't even have to talk about it again, but other than you deciding now or ever that we shouldn't run the shop together anymore, there is nothing, _nothing_ in the world that could get me to leave.” She stops, deeply flustered, and shakes her head. “That was – sorry, that wasn't exactly how I –”

“Éponine?”

“Yes – sorry –”

Cosette steps closer to her, mind buzzing with something bright and new and so, so familiar. “Let me kiss you; please let me kiss you.”

It takes a beat of silence, a stretched-out moment of uncertainty that lasts forever, until finally, helpless and with a hand carefully cupping Cosette's face, Éponine does.

 

In the warmth of her apartment, everything feels slightly more real, and even so, Cosette can't seem to let go of Éponine's hand – it's an anchor, a reassurance that this is really, truly happening. Éponine seems still more caught in disbelief than Cosette is, so she allows it, but there's something careful about the way she accepts tenderness, like she might wake herself up if she moves too quickly.

Well, Cosette has all the time in the world to make her believe in this.

“You wouldn't believe the nonsense I've told myself,” she says, shaking her head at herself. They are curled up on the futon Cosette keeps rolled out by her bay window, the pride of the apartment, and uses as the approximation of a reading nook. It's entirely possible that she has pictured this, Éponine and her fitting themselves into the space together and talking quietly as the world runs on outside, in the past – at least, with how familiar it feels, she thinks she must have. It wouldn't be the only thing that she's failed to realise as it happened. “Remember when you were trying on the off-shoulder gown for Irma? I almost fainted. Later on, I literally blamed it on hormones.”

“Not technically wrong,” says Éponine, but her cheeks flush, and Cosette can't stop looking at her. “I did the same. Half of why it took me so long was because I actually thought I'd just... stop feeling this way, with time, and it'd take care of itself. Talk about hopeless causes.”

“I wish I'd known.” Cosette corrects quickly, “This goes for me, I mean, not you. Looking back, I think – God, I went months without realising.”

“You're barely ever on your own mind,” says Éponine, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “I think it makes perfect sense.” She curls up closer to Cosette, head on her shoulder and their fingers intertwined between them. “There's never any room to be selfish, for you.”

Cosette can't think of a response. Earlier today, she felt herself walking, slowly, towards the end of something, and she went through the day with a quiet and certain sense of dread which she was determined to face with a smile. So many ways forward, now, and none of them seem important. If they could remain suspended in this space, in this moment, for an indeterminate future, Cosette couldn't object.

“To think,” she murmurs, and almost giggles at the thought as she traces Éponine's fingers with hers, “that we owe some of this to Montparnasse.”

Éponine opens her mouth and seems to immediately dismiss what she meant to say, shaking her head with a smile. “More of it than he could want, really,” she muses. “Still, he can _never_ find out. No credit to him, should he ever ask. Promise?”

Cosette would be puzzled by the insistence, if she weren't so eager to speak of other things and to do other things, so she just smiles. Éponine's fingers are warm in hers, and she leans in to kiss them before she whispers, quietly, “Promise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've made it! Thanks for being along for the ride, I was really quite nervous to get back to posting fic after so long, and your comments couldn't have been more lovely and encouraging. I'll get back to the ones I haven't responded to from last week later tonight, hopefully!
> 
> That said, I don't think I've ever made a fic up as I go as much as I did with this one, so I might eventually come back to smooth it all out a little bit. In the meantime, thank you all so much for reading, and you can also find me [here](https://lesamis.tumblr.com/) on tumblr :')


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